Blood Ties
by purrina57
Summary: "Golden curls that drip rain down his golden skin. Big golden eyes like coins, like melted sun, like sweet-honey. He is quite a bit taller than her, even though he is only a bit older, & he is slim, already muscular." ON HOLD INDEFINITELY.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yep. Should definitely not be writing this, but I watched _Legends of the Fall_ last night, and I couldn't help myself. I should be writing for Half Truths, Chaos, and, oh, yeah, that super important project I'm working on...but inspiration is an annoying thing sometimes! This story just wouldn't leave me alone!**

**So, here's the first chapter.**

**A quick overview-this is set mostly back in the early 1900's. I'm not a historian, nor am I overly knowledgeable about fashion and terms back in those days, so forgive all the many mistakes I'm sure will be featured. If you see a mistake I've made, let me know please because those kinds of things do bug me.**

**As for the actual plot, the story mainly follows Jace and Clary's lives as they grow up on their father's secluded ranch in Montana (think _Legends of the Falls_). There WILL be a supernatural element within the story, though subtle in most parts. Mainly, it's about Jace and Clary. And yes, they ARE brother and sister in this story. I know it's gross, but I also recently watched the TV movie _Flowers in the Attic_, so there you go. If the whole incest thing will upset you, please read no further. It upsets me, too. I have no clue why I'm writing this. I guess I just like exploring these twisted relationships (see _Chaos_). This is, however, no reflection me. Please don't think I'm some kind of freak.**

**I don't want to give any more away, so read on. And please let me know what you think! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

The sky is the color of angry blue eyes.

She watches the storms approach from the grand front porch, leaning against one of the posts and savoring the electric breeze that whistles across the land. The air smells damp and sharp, and she's taken back to a similar day, years ago.

* * *

**1912**

The rain beats on the carriage as it jumps and slips and wriggles up the road.

Clarissa Fray is tucked safely inside, sitting across from her grandmother—a woman she knew not existed until three days ago. Clary shifts uncomfortably on the seat and pulls back the fabric from the window, peeps out at the gray, water-washed landscape.

It must be beautiful, she thinks, if the rain would stop.

"You will be tutored," the grandmother says suddenly. Imogen manages to look regal and stiff even in a carriage that is bouncing all over creation. "You will be brought up to be a proper young lady—no more of this running around in pants, for Heaven's sake."

Clary looks down at herself, at the stuffy green dress Imogen has forced her in. She can't properly breathe in it. She thinks she'd rather die than wear these all the time, but she holds her tongue—as she's quickly found is the best approach when dealing with Imogen.

Clary's only prayer is that living on this ranch with mostly men will allow her to slip around unnoticed in pants. Thankfully, Imogen won't be staying, too.

Only carting the motherless Clary to a father she's never met.

Imogen's gray eyes narrow slightly as she regards Clary. As if reading her mind, the grandmother says, "Though the ranch is mostly men, your tutor, Hodge Starkweather, is very well-versed on what is expected of a proper young lady. Your Aunt Maryse will come from time to time, as well, to check up on your progress—as will I."

Clary is sure she isn't supposed to respond so she merely sits back in the hard carriage seat and lets the curtains fall on the strange new landscape.

"The ranch is hardly a proper place to raise a young woman," Imogen sniffs, glancing at her nails. They are long and nasty looking, Clary thinks, like a bird's talons, though that could just be her overactive imagination getting the best of her. "But your father insists on you coming to stay with him. He didn't agree with your mother's choices, anyway."

Clary remains silent. She's good at that. She's ten, which makes her small and unremarkable to most people's eyes.

So she always slips by unnoticed, silent and curious and _watching_.

* * *

She first sees him that day.

She and Imogen climb out of the carriage once they are at the ranch and make a dash for the massive refuge of the porch. Once underneath its wide roof, Clary undoes her bonnet and stares out in wonder at the landscape that is Montana.

The ranch is secluded, nothing for miles and miles around, and it's as if God Himself has built a barrier around the land in the form of towering grey mountains that reach up towards the rainy sky. The grass is green and tall and lush, pounded by the storm, and there is breath taking, clean beauty everywhere Clary turns her eyes.

Nothing has ever seemed more pristine and wonderful than the land she stands on now. And for a brief moment, she forgets her mother is dead.

But that moment is shattered when she hears the creak of a screen door open behind her.

A tall, hulking man steps out. Broad shouldered and thickly muscled, Clary takes a small step back. She cranes her head back to look up into his pale face, into his black eyes. He has blond hair so very blond it is almost white and it falls like silk over his forehead. The man swipes it to the side a bit and offers a tiny nod to the small redhead on his porch.

"This is her?" the man inquires, his obsidian eyes locked onto Clary intently.

"Yes," Imogen replies, primly. "Valentine, meet your daughter, Clarissa. Clarissa, meet your father."

Valentine holds his hand out.

It strikes Clary as an odd way to great a child he's never met. Her mother always hugged. But Clary isn't sure she'd want a hug from this man, anyway. He would be likely to crush her.

So Clary carefully takes his cool, dry hand. He shakes firmly.

"It is nice to finally meet you, Clarissa," Valentine says, nodding his head once. He offers the smallest of smiles.

Clary doesn't correct him on her name. She doesn't feel like he would be much of the type to use a shortened name.

"Well, I must be going," Imogen, says brusquely. "Before this storm gets any worse."

"Won't you stay for the night, Mother?" Valentine inquires, but it is more out of politeness, Clary believes.

Clary sees a flash of movement out in the rain, by the horse corral. So carefully, as to not slip on the wet wood of the porch, she drifts over to the railing and peers out into the gray.

There's a boy there, running silly circles the way boys do.

Clary at first thinks he is just stupid, perhaps not playing with a full deck, but then she sees him leap gracefully and grab something. When he stands back up, he's cupping something carefully in his hands, peering at it.

Clary squints into the rain, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever the boy seems so enamored with, but at that moment, Valentine comes over and calls out, "Jonathan!" He doesn't raise his voice, but the boy's head snaps up immediately, somehow hearing his name over the rain, and he drops the item he's found before he jerks into a quick, panther-like run that Clary can admire, seeing as how she was never much of a runner herself.

The boy leaps up onto the porch, and she sees him clearly for the first time.

He takes her breath. She feels the gut-punch of his beauty immediately, and she is surprised. She has never been one to fawn over looks. It's something she's always prided herself on. Her mother always taught her to see the beauty in everything, so if everything is beautiful, than nothing is.

But this boy _is_ beautiful.

Golden curls that drip rain down his golden skin. Big golden eyes like coins, like melted sun, like sweet-honey. He is quite a bit taller than Clary, even though he can only be a little bit older than her, and he is slim and already muscular. His clothes cling to his lean body like a second skin. His white shirt is soaked through, and Clary can see the amazing gold of his skin beneath it.

The boy's gold eyes are on her immediately, and raindrops shiver on his lashes like tears.

"Jonathan, I would like to introduce to you your sister," Valentine says.

And Clary feels dismayed. This beautiful boy is her brother? She is horribly disappointed and equally horrified at herself. Never before has she had romantic interest in boys. She thinks herself above it all. And now, she has been foolish enough to harbor such feelings for a boy she's only just seen and judged through looks alone. And he is her blood.

The boy's eyes are horribly intense. Clary feels herself grow weak and hot under his unrelenting gaze. He doesn't blink nor look away nor show signs of his feelings. His eyes are swirling like molten gold.

"Clarissa, this is your brother, Jonathan," Valentine says, nodding his head. "Amatis! Please take the young Clarissa up to her room and get her ready for dinner."

The golden-haired boy doesn't look away from Clary, nor does Clary look away from him, but their eye contact is still broken when a tired-looking woman steps between them.

She offers a weakened smile to Clary. "Come along, Miss Clarissa."

Clary finds herself reluctant to go, but she allows the older woman, whom looks like a faded painting, to lead her towards the door of the sprawling cabin.

Before Clary goes inside, she glances back over her shoulder. She chooses not to watch the carriage holding Imogen and her last chance at escape driving back down the nearly washed-out road.

Instead, she chooses to look back at the boy.

And he's still looking at her.

* * *

**Nothing weird is going to happen between Jace and Clary while they are still kids-just to be clear. **

**AND NOW! Please review. Let me know a favorite line if you have one. Let me know how you're feeling about everything. For anyone that hasn't read my other stories, please know that I respond to all reviews and I don't bite so let me know what you think about this so far! Thank y'all! (:**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, y'all! I've already gotten like 6 chapters written, so I'm trying to pace myself and not give out everything all at once and then have y'all go two weeks without anything. But I remembered I usually post two chapters the first night of a new story just to give y'all a little something to see if y'all will enjoy the story or not. So here ya go! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

"You're a lovely thing," Amatis says to Clary's reflection. "You look so much like your mother. It almost takes my breath."

Clary stares at herself in the mirror, as well; at the new white dress she's been forced to wear. Her red curls have been pinned and braided in a way Clary thought impossible. She longs for her hair to be let out and put in one simple braid, the way her mother always did her hair. But Clary hasn't spoken in two whole days, and she decides not to break the tradition yet, over something as trivial as hair.

Clary's emerald eyes are too big in her face. She remembers her mother always saying her eyes became the size of saucers when she was sad. They are saucers, now.

"I knew your mother very well, you know," Amatis says as she bustles over to the massive white bed that Clary is to sleep in every night. Her suitcases are sat atop the mattress, and Amatis busies herself with emptying them. "She was a wonderful girl. She was best of friends with my brother—Luke."

A small pucker forms between Clary's brows and she turns to look at Amatis and her graying hair and her wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, thin little lines that crack with every expression the woman gives.

"He was my little brother," Amatis adds dryly, noticing Clary's disbelieving look that Amatis could be close to the same age as her always-vibrant mother. "Much younger than I. I watched Jocelyn grow up. I was heartbroken to hear of her passing."

Clary swallows against the thorns in her throat and looks back to her reflection, trying to see some of her mother in her. But she doesn't. Her hair isn't scarlet, like her mother's. Her eyes aren't as open and wondrous as her mother's, more feline and suspicious. Clary is a very suspicious looking child, as if she is always up to something. She lacks her mother's high cheekbones, as well, although they could perhaps be hidden in the still-lingering childish pudge of Clary's face.

"I'm just so shocked that Jocelyn passed," Amatis sighs, taking out one of the many dresses Imogen bought for Clary over the past three days—so that she would be "presentable" in her father's household, as Imogen has phrased it. "Jocelyn was such a breath of light and…and energy. I can't believe she caught that dreadful TB. I just can't imagine it—her being sick. It's an impossible image."

But it's an image Clary has stuck very clearly in her mind. Her mother's sallow face, the loss of light in her eyes, the constant sheen of sweat on her forehead, the delirious look on her face, the limp, cold feel of her hand in Clary's.

Clary swallows again and looks to the ground.

"You don't say very much, do you?" Amatis inquires.

Clary glances up and sees the older woman smirking a bit as she hangs the dresses in the wardrobe.

"You strike me as the silent, calculating type," Amatis goes on. "That's fine. I was once the same girl, myself." Then the older woman's smirk fades and she grows terribly somber. Glancing at the open bedroom door, Amatis drops down in front of Clary, so they are eye-level, and the older woman's hands grip the tops of Clary's arms carefully. "Promise me not to talk to your father of your mother. The way things were between them…well; I don't believe it would be in your best interest to mention her—or my speaking of her. I sometimes forget my place and speak out of turn. This is your father's house—not your mother's. You'll do well to remember that, Clary."

And then the older woman is moving about the room again, putting Clary's new things away, and Clary merely watches her, a growing uneasiness in her stomach.

How did Amatis know to call her Clary, she wonders.

* * *

The dinning room is lavish.

The house itself is lavish. Rich decorations, thick rugs, heavy furniture, first edition books in very shelf, wooden beams running along the tall ceilings, curling wooden stairs, handmade blankets draped from railings. It's more room and luxury than Clary could ever imagine neither for herself nor for a log cabin.

She sits now in the dinning room with her father. He sits at the head of the long, empty table, and she sits to his right. They are silent.

Valentine seems irritable.

And when Amatis walks in with trays overflowing with food, he says, coolly, "Have you seen my son?"

"I haven't. I shall go fetch him immediately," Amatis replies and quickly exits.

Only a few moments later does she return with a peevish looking Jonathan by her side. She disappears out of the door again, and Valentine's cool gaze falls on Jonathan as the younger boy scrambles up into his seat.

"Where have you been? Dinner is always at seven. You're to be here at seven," Valentine murmurs, his quiet voice more terrifying than a shout.

Jonathan merely bows his head. "I'm sorry, Father. Time got away from me, I'm afraid." And then Jonathan's golden eyes rise up to Clary's, meeting her gaze from across the table.

Things grow silent, and Clary's heartbeat grows loud.

"Well, what were you doing?" Valentine inquires, though obviously less angered.

"I was reading," Jonathan says to Valentine but continues looking at Clary. A smirk quirks the boy's narrow mouth, and Clary immediately knows he is lying. She isn't sure how she knows, but she does.

"What were you reading?" Valentine asks.

"_The Last of the Mohicans_," Jonathan says without missing a beat.

Clary admires his quick thinking. She almost smiles back at his devious, growing smirk.

"How is it so far?"

"Boring," Jonathan groans in distaste.

Valentine chuckles slightly, the sound surprising Clary. "Perhaps you'll get a taste for fine literature one day, Jonathan. Now, let's say grace."

* * *

Valentine asks no questions of Clary, nor does Jonathan. The only engage in conversation occasionally, themselves. Clary is relieved that neither tries talking to her. She doesn't feel very much like talking at all.

Jonathan continues stealing glances at Clary all evening long. She only notices this because she is stealing glances herself.

* * *

The rain continues on. Clary can hear it very loudly in her new bed. And it hits against the windows of her bedroom, too, throwing the room in gray light and dark shadowy raindrops.

She shifts restlessly on her new mattress, which is much too soft. She can't stand it. She misses her mother. She wishes she had got TB, too, some days, so that she could have died with her mother. Life without Jocelyn is like life without sun, which is why Clary is convinced it's been raining for so long.

Finally, she can no longer stand the strange, musty smell of her pillow nor the fluffy softness of her bed, so she climbs out. She doesn't bother with a housecoat, merely pads her way, bare-footed, across the freezing-cold hardwoods, into the hall.

She winds down the steps, to the first floor, and quietly, so quietly, slips outside, onto the porch.

She stands and watches the rain for an indefinable amount of time. She looses track, lost in her own thoughts and then lost in the silence of her mind.

Then, suddenly, she steps forward, out into the sheeting, ice-cold rain. It soaks her through immediately. Her feet squish in the wet, almost-frozen ground, and each rain drop stabs against her skin like an icy needle.

She starts shivering almost immediately, but she keeps walking, walking and walking and walking until she's almost a mile from the house but can still see it somehow, because the land around them is so flat but the mountains that surround them are so tall.

It is beautiful. Clary thinks she could die and be happy now. She's seen something more than the grime and soot and steam of New York. She now has this—nature and glory the way God intended it in her mind, in her eyes.

She closes her eyes and sits down. She doesn't care that the mud will ruin her white night gown. She doesn't care much about anything, now, not even the cold.

She takes a deep breath, finds she's not shivering as much anymore, either. She wonders if she's turned blue yet.

And then she hears something. A voice.

"What in the hell are you doing?" it shouts irritably.

Clary's eyes snap open and her head jerks back to find Jonathan's angry gaze upon her. He's soaked, too, and the moon peeps out from behind the clouds just enough to shine light on his lovely gold hair.

Clary's lips part but no sound comes out.

"Well?" he snaps, impatiently. "What are you doing? Trying to get pneumonia or something? Get up!" And when she doesn't, he reaches down and grabs her arm—too roughly—and yanks her to her feet. He starts half dragging her back to the ranch.

When they are back under the cover of the porch, he glares over at her, blinking rapidly to make the raindrops on his lashes fling off.

"You're crazy," he accuses. Then he does something that brings just a little heat back into her frozen cheeks: he yanks his pajama shirt up and over his head. And then he jerks his pajama pants down, too, leaving him only in some undershorts that are soaked with rain, too. He shakes out his hair and dries his feet on the wooden porch as best he can before pointing Clary and saying, "Stay here—don't run out into that rain again because I'm going to let you freeze to death if you do."

Then he disappears into the house, and Clary finally looks over to where he was standing again. Her eyes fall helplessly to the pile of his sopping wet clothes. He must have taken them off to keep from tracking water in the house.

Clary has never seen as much of a boy as has tonight. She saw his chest—his _bare_ chest. She is so embarrassed.

Jonathan returns a few minutes later in some dry pajamas, much to Clary's relief. He also has a dry nightgown for her. He hands it over. "Take this and put it on. If you track water in the house, Father will kill you."

Slowly, Clary takes the garment. Then she looks at Jonathan expectantly.

He simply looks back.

And finally, after almost three whole days of silence, Clary has to break it, which irritates her beyond belief. Her voice is crackly when she snaps, a bit peevishly, "Well, you better turn around or go inside. I'd rather be killed by our father than watched while I change."

"Girls are so peculiar," he sniffs but turns around obediently.

Clary, still aware of how improper the situation is, quickly peels her wet nightgown off and replaces it with the dry one. She keeps her eyes firmly planted on Jonathan's back, for fear he will turn and catch her without her clothes, but he doesn't.

And then, once she's changed, Clary clears her throat.

He turns back around and gathers his wet pajamas and her wet nightgown. "I'll get rid of these."

"Why?" Clary demands.

Jonathan glances at her sharply. "Were you the village idiot back home? Do you _want_ Father to know you took a midnight stroll in the freezing rain? He'll whip you every day for the rest of your life! He doesn't take kindly to crazy."

Clary's scowl is fierce. "I'm not crazy."

"Well, taking a nature walk in icy rain sure doesn't scream sanity," he replies, crinkling his nose.

Clary's jaw juts out. "I'm _not_ crazy."

"Sure." Jonathan just rolls his eyes. "You might as well go on back to bed. It's late and Father gets us up at dawn."

"Dawn?" Clary's eyes go wide.

Jonathan simply nods. "We have things that need to get done around here. We don't lounge around all day, eating bon-bon's and discussing the latest trends in women's fashion."

"I don't do any of those things," Clary defends. "And what could you possibly get done in this rain?"

"It won't be raining tomorrow," he tells her, sure as can be.

And Clary is the one rolling her eyes now. "Are you clairvoyant now?"

At this, Jonathan flashes her a smile. "Only observant. And outstandingly intelligent."

Clary snorts in disgust. "We'll see about that."

"We sure will," he says, and Clary wants to hit him.

* * *

Much to Clary's dismay, the next day, the sky is as clear and blue as can be.

* * *

**Thoughts? Please review! Oh, also, Jace is 12 and Clary is 10 at this point in time (: Please let me know your favorite lines, if there are any (:**


	3. Chapter 3

**Pacing. I NEED TO PACE MYSELF. I do NOT want to give all the chapters up all at once. But then I go back and rework some of them, and I get so excited to share with y'all. Sigh. Well, I still have three more chapters to draw out over the next few days. So this is the last update of the evening. **

**I'm already thrilled by y'all's responses! I love that some of you are on the rocks about the incest thing but willing to give it a go (thank you for the trust, I hope I don't fail you!), and some of you are like LET'S DO THIS and totally don't care about it. I think that's awesome. Now, just like one amazing reviewer mentioned, I obviously don't endorse incest, just as I don't endorse murder (hello, Chaos). But I do find it interesting to explore these twisted relationships. **

**Anyway, I hope everyone is doing well today! I feel like I haven't talked to anyone on here in so long, and it's sad! I hate that life intervenes sometimes and I have to let go of the Fanfiction world for a while. Curses! **

**So here's the chapter. Jace and Clary are still 12 and 10, respectively. They will remain that way for the next couple of chapters. To get this relationship right, I will have to focus on their childhood and their developments there for their actions in their adulthood to have more meaning to the reader. Y'all get my drift, right? I know having them as kids seems kind of boring for now, but I will soon be getting into a little bit of the supernatural mystery that underlies the plot in this story. Fun times!**

**Also, you will be getting more of Jocelyn's story and why she left soon.**

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

The next day, when the sky is beautiful and blue and Clary is amazed by the grandeur of Montana and this secluded ranch, she sees Jonathan outside.

He sits on the edge of a wooden fence while a big, strong looking man repairs another section of the fence that is broken. Jonathan swings his legs restlessly and munches on an apple.

As Clary approaches the two of them, she hears Jonathan asking the man questions about the repair, listening intently to each of the man's gentle, quiet responses.

When Clary draws nearer, Jonathan's eyes snap over to her over the top of his apple. He stares her down, his gaze as unwavering as always, but Clary keeps her chin tilted into the air, keeps her own face cool as she walks over.

"Luke, this is Clarissa," Jonathan pipes up, smirking before taking a big bite from his apple.

The man glances up from his fence, his brow dewed with sweat. He has faded blue eyes and a sweet smile with lines. "Howdy, Miss Clarissa."

"It's just Clary," she corrects quietly, but with a small smile in return. She inclines her head just slightly.

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Clary," Luke says, tilting his cowboy hat down at her. His eyes linger on her face and grow sad, and she wonders if perhaps she does favor her mother a bit after all.

* * *

"No, no, no!" Hodge barks.

Clary jumps, blinks in shock at the white-haired man's outburst. He stands before her, his thin chest puffed out with indignation so until it strains the buttons of his immaculate gray suit.

"You're doing it all wrong, Clarissa," he says, motioning to the piano keys emphatically. "You arch your fingers—arch! Not lay them flat against the keys like limp noodles! Arch, arch, arch!"

Clary's eyes, despite her best efforts, slip over to Jonathan, whom sits in the big wing back chair, his legs pulled to his chest, a book resting on his knees. He grins at her and mouths, "ARCH!" which makes her smile—but only slightly.

"Are you listening, Clarissa? Try the piece again. Who taught you to play piano?"

"My mother," she snaps with enough venom to make the old man blink like an owl behind his thick spectacles.

"W-well," Hodge stammers, smoothing his vest down. "Try the piece again. Arch your fingers more."

"Yes, sir," Clary says flatly and does as she's asked. But this time, just to spite the old tutor that smells like library dust, she hits a few wrong notes on purpose.

It nearly sends him through the roof. He gobbles like a turkey and begins yelling at her again, his horror renewed.

And slowly, Clary's eyes slide over to Jonathan again, while Hodge continues going on about her pathetic piano skills, and Jonathan simply smirks knowingly, a small secret shared.

Clary looks away from him coolly, nodding at Hodge's impassioned instructions, but she smiles internally—but only slightly.

* * *

"Is Hodge always so dreadful?" Clary inquires of Jonathan as they drift into the den after their lessons are over.

Clary's fingers ache from all the piano playing and the sewing lessons. She feels a bit cheated at the tasks she is forced to learn. While Hodge tells her how to hold her head back when she walks, how to balance a book on top of her head, Jonathan gets to learn chemistry with Valentine in the barn outside or gets to learn how to run the ranch with Luke. Clary finds they both have to read, but Jonathan gets thick books with big words. Clary gets simpler tomes.

Hodge explains that this is mostly because Jonathan has been learning under his care longer, and is more advanced—something Clary wholeheartedly refuses to believe.

Since when is a boy ever more advanced than a girl? It goes against everything Clary's mother taught her.

"Hodge, I'm afraid," Jonathan says coolly, bringing Clary's mind back to the present, "Is a sad man that feels his intelligence knows no bounds—mistakenly, of course. He believes himself, falsely, as I say, to be above teaching children out here on this, as he puts it, 'God forsaken ranch.'"

"Then why does he do it?"

"Because Father pays him well. And it is my sneaking suspicion that our dear Mr. Hodge offended the wrong people back home with his holier than thou attitude and thus has no choice but to go into exile."

"He seems the type."

Jonathan smirks over at Clary. "Indeed he does."

The two of them sit in the den—Jonathan on the settee and Clary in the chair. The fire crackles warmly in the room, casting orange flames on the darkening walls.

Clary turns her face towards the windows overlooking the front porch of the ranch home and beyond—to the tall grass and the winding road that leads to the train depot where she arrived. But she doesn't look at the road. She merely stares at the towering mountains, the shock of pink and gold the sky has turned with the setting sun.

Never has Clary seen a sunset so beautiful.

"It was a lovely and clear day today, wasn't it?" Jonathan asks smugly.

Clary scowls over at him, rubs her sore fingers. "I do so hope you don't expect praise for a lucky guess."

"I would never be so presumptuous. But I do, however, expect praise for my high intellect—which I have displayed for you."

Clary rolls her eyes. "Are all boys so arrogant?"

"I don't know," Jonathan answers genuinely.

And Clary genuinely doesn't know, either. Her mother taught her art and reading and writing and some mathematics. But she never taught her about boys. Clary never observed them much, nor girls of her own age, either, for that matter. Clary always preferred to be with her mother, to be with her mother's beautiful, elegant friends with their trilling laughter and their praises for Clary's pretty red braids. She always thought snotty children to be beyond her.

"Do you ever leave this ranch much?" Clary inquires quietly of Jonathan.

He's staring down at a thick tome he has open over his legs, now. A tome Hodge did not assign him. "No. Father says the outside world is mad."

"Does he?"

"Yes. He says there are all kinds of wicked people. Greedy people that are Godless but pretend to be filled with the Holy Spirit. He says it's a bunch of mutts pretending to be show dogs. He says it's disgusting."

"Have you ever been off the ranch?"

"Once or twice. I can't remember it very well, though."

Clary is amazed. "Don't you wonder what it's like?"

Jonathan seems confused by this. His brows pull together slightly, and he lifts his head. His curls fall into his eyes, un-greased by hair pomades like all the other boys Clary has ever seen. "No, not really. Father says it is so bad. Why would I?"

"Don't you want to see if it is so bad for yourself?" Clary asks, smoothing her dress over her legs.

"No. I trust Father. You should, too."

"How can I trust a man I don't know?"

Jonathan scowls a bit. "Father is a great man. Everyone trusts him. That's why no one else ever leaves this ranch, either. They all trust him. They believe that what he says is the truth."

"No one _ever_ leaves?" Clary asks, her brows arching.

"Luke and Amatis sometimes go into town. But rarely so. Mostly, people come here. Businessmen wanting cattle. Deliverymen giving letters and parcels to Father. Evil Imogen sometimes comes, too. And Aunt Maryse with her children."

"Is Aunt Maryse our father's sister?"

"No. She's no blood relation to us at all. She and her husband Robert are only dear, devoted friends to Father."

"I see." Clary really doesn't see, but she detests the thought of Jonathan thinking her slow. She watches as he bows his head again, to read more. His lips move when he reads, albeit silently. And occasionally, his brow will furrow. His lips will move slower, repeat the same lines, over and over until he makes sense of the words, and then, he will nod proudly and slightly to himself and move on.

Watching him read is almost as entertaining as reading itself, Clary thinks, though she doesn't know why. Perhaps it is just because she's never been around a boy her age before. Perhaps it's because he is her brother, her blood, part of her mother in some way, and therefore, he is curious to her. Or perhaps it is only because of his beauty. He is so very beautiful, she thinks, although she never figured a boy could be called such.

"Do you wonder about our mother?" Clary asks suddenly, unable to help herself. She finds her curiosity is harder to hide from Jonathan than it is everyone else. She is so used to being quiet, being asked the questions.

Jonathan's head snaps up, a scowl marring his pretty face. "No, I don't."

Clary blinks at his harsh tone. "But she's your mother."

"I don't claim her as such," Jonathan says.

Clary feels the beginning stirrings of anger within her, hot and restless licks of fire. "How dare you speak ill of the dead?"

"I'm not speaking ill of her—yet. I simply said I don't claim her as my mother." Jonathan shifts on the settee and glares over at Clary, the roaring flames within the fireplace reflected in his eyes. "How could I claim a woman as my mother that abandoned all her motherly duties?"

"She did no such thing. She only left this place because she detested it! She tried to take you with her."

"She did not," Jonathan snaps.

"How can you remember for certain? You would have only been two!"

"I know because Father said so."

"Well, if Father said so it must be certain," Clary sniffs.

An angry splotch of red colors Jonathan's cheeks, the bridge of his nose, almost like sunburn. His lips part, but no sound comes out. And Clary decides no adult has been as fiery and terrifying looking as the twelve-year-old boy before her.

"You don't know anything," he says, his voice low and cutting. "You're just a stupid girl raised by a stupid woman."

Clary's own fury threatens to overtake her, but somehow, she manages to whisper in a halfway intelligent way, "And you're just a blind boy."

Jonathan says nothing more. He merely slams his book shut and stalks away, his rage leaving a trail behind, tainting the room.

Clary cries that night, in her bedroom, and wishes for her mother to return. But she knows she never will.

* * *

**Favorite lines if there are any? Maybe? Please? Pretty please? Thoughts, comments, concerns? Let me know please! (:**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, y'all! I'll post again, later tonight, so stay tuned!**

**I actually don't have much to say, which is weird, because my A/N's are usually ridiculously long... Oh, well. **

**Please enjoy!(:**

**Oh, wait! I do have something to say! The next chapter will jump ahead two months! And there will probably be about 2-3 more chapters of Clary and Jace at ages 10 and 12, respectively. Then they'll be 12 and 14...respectively. (I just really like saying respectively like that! It makes me feel so intelligent!) And THEN, after a few chapters at that age, we'll jump to 14 and 16. And then finally, 16 and 18, which is probably what a few of y'all already want to see for, ahem, various reasons.**

**So again, enjoy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Clary watches as the rose-painted vase tips. It slowly turns and twists in the air, yet neither of them can catch it before it slams into the hardwoods and shatters into a hundred pieces, broken shards of glass scattering everywhere.

The sound is like a gunshot, and the ringing silence that ensues is just like that of the silence after the bullet tears from the rifle.

Jonathan and Clary both stare in blank horror at the mess of pottery.

They had been playing. At least, Clary _thought_ they'd been playing. She's never been around children her age, of course, but most definitely not around children that would enjoy running through the house like heathens, playing a game Jonathan calls "tag."

"Oh, no," he whispers presently.

Something about the way he whispers it is terrifying to Clary, and she feels nervousness shake her fingers.

"Could we clean it up before anyone notices?" Clary asks quickly.

"Father would notice it missing," Jonathan replies back without hesitation. He still stares down at the broken vase, his face tightening in apprehension.

Clary opens her mouth, ready to suggest some other plan—perhaps gluing it back—when there's a more terrifying sound than even the vase shattering and Jonathan's dully fearful whisper.

"What was that noise?" comes the quiet, cool voice of their father. He materializes out of thin air, Clary thinks, as if magically drawn to their mistake.

Valentine takes three long strides towards them and the broken vase, and he regards the mess on the floor with cold calculation. His black eyes are like those of a snake's—dangerous and always ready to strike.

Clary waits with her breath held for his response. She doesn't hear Jonathan breathing beside her, either.

"How did this happen?" Valentine asks, his voice deceptively soft.

Jonathan speaks, and for the first time Clary's heard, his voice breaks. "I…we were playing tag."

Valentine's jaw tightens and locks. Clary watches the muscles in his face strain, but his voice once again comes out smooth. He doesn't look at either of them—only the shattered vase. "You were running in the house."

It isn't a question.

Jonathan answers, though. "Y-yes, sir."

"That is one of the rules, Jonathan. No running in the house."

"I know, sir. I…it's raining outside, though, and I wanted to teach Clary how—"

"Clarissa does not need to know such childish games. Nor do you need to be playing them. You're twelve years old, Jonathan. You are beyond such things." Valentine's voice is final and firm, a judge's gavel slamming down. "And you know that there are no circumstances that ever allow you to break the rules. Rules are meant to keep order. This is what happens when you break them." He motions to the broken pile of glass.

Clary watches as Jonathan's Adam's apple bobs up and down in a way that looks infinitely painful and difficult. She sees his head is bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor, too, as he says, "I'm sorry, Father." The way he won't look at Valentine is very deliberate.

Clary feels the beginning prick of realization and horror on her neck.

"Apologizing does nothing, Jonathan. Apologies are words that can fix no thing, make nothing whole. It's a sign of weakness."

Jonathan squeezes his eyes shut, almost as if in chastisement of himself. "Y-yes, sir."

"You're punishment will be the loss of your privileges. You're much too old to be whipped. So you won't be allowed to go outside for the next three days. You'll only be allowed to study—no reading or exploring or playing _tag_." Valentine doesn't sneer the word, but he makes it sound ridiculous and disgusting, nonetheless.

Clary can't stand the sight of Jonathan's dipped head. She doesn't know why, but it makes her stomach sick. And she finds words tumbling from her mouth, the first words she's ever spoken directly to her father. "I broke the vase. I slammed into the table, being careless. Jonathan isn't to blame."

Jonathan's head snaps up, his eyes going wide, his brows pulling together.

But Clary merely forces herself to look up into the cold face of the man that is her father. "Punish me, instead."

Valentine blinks once, twice, staring at her with those unfathomable, forever-frozen eyes, and then he looks away dismissively. He doesn't even respond to her. Only says, "Jonathan, I need your help with an experiment as soon as you've cleaned this mess up. You're punishment will be lifted long enough for you to come out to the barn." Then, without another word, the large man walks away from them, leaves the cabin to go to his precious barn, the one Clary finds he spends most his time in.

Once the front door slams shut resoundingly behind him, Jonathan's eyes search out Clary's own. "You shouldn't have lied like that," he whispers.

"I didn't lie. We both ran into the table."

"But I'm the one that knocked it over."

"Well, I don't see why you need worry over it. He seemed to have cared less that I had anything to do with it," Clary sniffs, trying to make light of it.

But Jonathan is looking hunted, older and more serious than Clary ever thought possible. The boy with small smirks and burning eyes seems like a different creature entirely than the one before her now. "It's best that way. You don't want to garner Father's anger. He has a temper."

"So I've noticed."

"You haven't seen it yet," Jonathan dismisses ominously, without meaning to be. Then he crouches down, starts slowly gathering the pieces of sharp vase together.

Clary squats down to help.

But he says, quickly, "No. This is my mess."

"Honestly," Clary scoffs, frowning and standing again. She rests her hands on her hips as she glares down at him. "I don't see why you are so stubborn, Jonathan."

* * *

The time is late, and Clary knows she should be fast asleep if she is ever to have any hope of rising by dawn for her studies.

But she has never had a bedtime before. Her mother never enforced one, and Amatis doesn't enforce one here, either.

Clary always prefers the night. She thinks best then, in the comfort of the darkness.

She curls up by the fireplace, a book in her lap. She glances ever so often to the window, to the moonlit expanse of wavering tall grass and shockingly beautiful mountains.

She tells herself that she's only admiring the view. But truly, she's looking for Jonathan, waiting for him to return.

He missed dinner, along with Valentine. They both stayed out in the barn, and Clary ate with Luke and Amatis. They were kind, warm people, and for a few minutes, Clary felt at home again. But then she asked why Jonathan and Valentine were missing out on the delicious meal Amatis had prepared, and they both grew somber and quiet.

"Valentine often needs help running his experiments," Amatis has said.

"Experiments?" Clary had asked.

And all Luke had said, with a very peculiar light in his eyes, was, "Valentine is a genius—a scientific genius."

So Clary, dying of curiosity, waits impatiently for Jonathan's return.

And finally, he arrives, creeping quietly back into the house. His shadow passes by the den's doorway, and Clary leaps up, dashing into the hall as she sees him starting for the steps.

"Jonathan," she whispers, as to not wake anyone.

He pauses but doesn't turn around. There is something slightly frightening about the way he stands, his back towards her but unmoving. He's hunched in on himself, his head bowed forward, and Clary feels a prick of nervousness jolt through her.

"Jonathan?" she asks, timidly despite herself.

He starts to turn, and she briefly imagines him with an angry green face and fangs—like Dr. Jekyll maybe, as though Valentine has turned his son into a monster in the name of science—but when Jonathan spins towards her fully, his face is as beautiful and golden as always.

"What?" he asks irritably.

Clary breathes a small sigh of relief, feeling rather stupid at her overactive imagination. "Where have you been all evening?"

"Helping Father," he says vaguely.

Clary takes a few steps towards him, slow, small steps. "Doing what? What kind of experiments does he run?"

Jonathan's face tightens slightly. She notices he eases back further from her, into the shadows more and more. "I'm not…I'm not very sure."

"How are you not if you help him?"

"He doesn't tell me. He only asks me to go fetch him things from the land. I know the woods like the back of my hand. So I go get him herbs and roots and the like. And sometimes, he lets me mix concoctions. But I don't understand any of it. And I can't read fluently in Latin yet."

"What does Latin have to do with anything?" Clary inquires, stepping forward more.

And Jonathan steps back further. "That's what all the writing is. Father's writing and the writing on the floor and in the books—at least, that's what I think, the writing is. It's very strange looking in places."

For some strange reason that is beyond Clary, she feels a cold-hot shiver run down her back. Uneasiness settles in her stomach like a basket of writhing snakes.

And, when she steps even closer to Jonathan, she sees why he's taken to the shadows.

A dark circle has formed around his eye, painfully purple. The smudge of darkness is horrifying on his beautiful skin, his beautiful face, and Clary gasps quietly despite her best efforts otherwise.

Jonathan looks away from her quickly, turning his head so she can no longer see the dreadful bruise. Shame colors his cheeks.

There's a thick moment of bloated silence that only the grandfather clock's ticking fills.

Clary is unsure what to say. So she decides to say nothing at all. She thinks perhaps Jonathan would like it better that way.

Remembering her mother, Clary reaches out and touches Jonathan's cheek gently. His skin is shockingly warm and smooth, almost hot to the touch but not feverish. He makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, and his big sun-eyes dance back to Clary's widely.

Quickly, she retracts her hand, embarrassed. She isn't her mother, nor is she Jonathan's mother. She thinks those kinds of touches only work if you're the mother. Otherwise, it's _different_.

"Goodnight, Jonathan," Clary says primly and stiffly. She gathers the blasted skirts of her blasted dress and goes for the steps. She nearly takes two of them at a time in her haste to get away from her humiliation.

And, just as she reaches the top of the staircase, she hears Jonathan say, quietly, "Clary?"

She can't help put pause and glance back down the steps. He stands at the foot of them, his hand resting hesitantly on the banner as he looks up at her, his curls getting caught in his eyelashes as he blinks. The dark smudge of bruise around his eye stands out sharply.

"Yes?" she asks flatly.

"I'd rather you call me Jace."

Clary stares down at him a moment, pursing her lips, as if debating. And then, finally, she nods ever so slightly and says, "Goodnight, Jace."

"Night, Clary."

* * *

**NOW all is right with the world. Jace! Not Jonathan. I'm glad I finally got to this point because I hate writing Jonathan over and over. It's too long, and I'm lazy and I always want to spell it JOHNathan, which is, obviously wrong, and then I have to go back and correct which brings us back to the lazy part of my personality. Anyway, please let me know your favorite line, if you had one! (: Thanks for all the reviews so far! I'm very encouraged by all you wonderful people! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey, y'all! Two updates tonight, this is the first! Sorry I never updated again last night. I got distracted. And I decided to rewrite the chapters I'd written for this story, so I'm basically back to publishing as I write which is kind of a bummer. But you know. Anyway, enjoy please! (:  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Two Months Later**

Clary, by some strange twist of fate, finds herself tromping through the woods with Jace. She's denied his requests for a whole month now, refusing to go poking around in the thick clump of trees and brush on the property. Jace had already told her there were bears in the woods—and he _claimed_ to have seen one, even.

The idea of getting eaten by one of these creatures didn't seem particularly appealing to Clary, something she told Jace every time he asked her to go "exploring."

But he was a persistent little devil.

Clary has quickly found, over the last two months of her stay on the ranch, that he does act a bit like their mother in his need to have near-constant companionship. Clary has never needed to be around others to feel contentment, but Jace seems to enjoy having someone to talk to, even if he does poke fun at her mostly when he does strike up a conversation with her.

Clary winds up, despite herself, of course, feeling a bit for Jace. He's been on this ranch most of his life, without the companionship of another child his age. While it doesn't seem horrific to Clary, she can see how dreadful it would be for a conversational child such as Jace.

So she's tromping through the woods.

Her dress catches on every little twig and branch, making her growl in disapproval. Jace is always ahead of her, not making a sound. He's catlike in the way he walks sometimes, silent and graceful. He obviously knows the woods like the back of his hand. Even when Clary is properly lost, he knows the way back, knows just what direction the cabin is and everything.

Clary is begrudgingly impressed.

"The woods will clear up here," he tells her over his shoulder, pausing to wait as she once again untangles her silly skirts from a thorn bush.

Clary wonders briefly if Amatis will be put out with her for ruining the hem of this dress.

And then Clary fixes her eyes on the woods ahead, frowning. "Are you sure?" she inquires slowly. It doesn't look to her that the woods will clear any time soon.

Jace gives her a slightly peevish look. "Yes, Clarissa, I'm sure."

"Well, there's no need to be offended."

He just makes a slight grunting noise, the same kind of noise Clary's heard Luke make before when Amatis is scolding him for tracking mud into their quarters.

They push onward for a few more feet, and then, suddenly, just as Jace said, the woods part and there is nothing but knee-tall, wavering green grass and the heavenly-reaching mountains before them.

Clary hears the roar of a river, and sees, in the distance, the spray of water. Excitedly, she pulls her skirts up and runs forward, behind Jace, because he, being a boy, is required to run about everywhere, anyway.

He reaches the water before her, but only because of her dress—a fact she makes plain to him.

"I could still run faster than you even without your dress," Jace argues, but with that annoying little smirk on his lips.

Clary glares briefly before shuffling closer to the river. It runs fast and wild, white foam splashing up against her toes, the smell of fresh water filling her nose, exciting the beat of her heart.

And then, as she dares to peer even closer to the ledge, she feels a sharp push at her back, nearly making her topple in. Infuriated, she snaps her gaze at Jace. "Jonathan!" she screeches.

He's already dancing away from her, and she takes off after him, hauling her skirts up as high as she can to prove him wrong on her running abilities.

She's never enjoyed tearing across the ground everywhere she goes, but today, with anger and competitiveness on her side, she runs faster than she thought possible and almost catches Jace. At least she snags the back of his shirt, and jerks sharply, making him trip up slightly, and she rams into the back of him by accident.

They tumble to the ground, a mess of limbs and hair and fabric. Jace coughs distastefully when he gets a mouthful of her scarlet hair fallen from its elegant up-do. She yelps angrily when his bony knee jabs her side.

They roll and roll in the grass, both clawing and kicking at the other. She somehow manages to land on top of him, and she stares down at his scowling face with a proud, tiny smirk. But he quickly flips her and he's on top, looming over her with his own victorious grin.

"I win," he announces.

"I didn't know we were competing," Clary drawls.

"Life is a game, Clarissa," he replies, arching his brows in a serious manner that makes her smile a bit. And then he flashes a quick grin and adds, "And as I said, I'm winning."

"Get off me," she huffs, pushing at his chest.

But he doesn't move. Instead, he stays there above her, his hands on either side of her face, his knees on either side of her hips. His hair hangs down off his forehead, and his brows pull together slightly as he stares at her curiously. Curiously enough that she feels a hot feeling of discomfort flush over her face.

"What?" she demands sharply. "Are you deaf? I said to get off!"

"Your hair," he says.

"What of it?" she asks irritably. The feeling discomfort is shifting into something else. Panic, perhaps? But that would be too intense of a word, Clary decides. More she is unnerved. Unnerved because she doesn't think she'd be strong enough to push him off of her. She doesn't like feeling so helpless, so pinned to the ground.

"It's pretty," Jace says, and then he wrinkles his nose slightly, realizing he just inadvertently paid her a compliment. "I mean, it's prettier down—not all pinned back like you keep it."

Clary's face grows hotter, and her mouth is filled with cotton. She feels a touch of anger rise up within her chest, furious at her loss of words. "W-well," she finally stammers. "I don't put it up that way. Amatis does."

"Oh." And then, like a true boy, Jace's attention is elsewhere, and he's suddenly rolling off her, hopping to his feet. "Come this way! There's a hot spring over here!"

Clary has no idea what a hot spring is, but she gets up anyway, slowly, allowing her heart rate to ease back into a normal, less frantic pace.

Only then does she follow Jace.

* * *

The sky is turning hot gold and pink when they emerge on the home-side of the woods once more.

Clary is surprised to find the sunset blazing in the sky as it is now. She's surprised to think she's spent the whole day outdoors, playing in the hot spring, marveling at its natural heat, and running about in the woods, learning to climb trees with Jace.

He whistles a happy tune beside her now as they walk, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets.

The tune annoys her. Whistling annoys her, in general. But she doesn't say anything about it, only scowls pointedly at him, which he is oblivious to.

"Hey," he says suddenly, glancing over at her with a sparkle of idea in his golden eyes that match the dipping sun. "Wanna see the old cabin?"

Clary eyes him wearily. Her feet and ankles already ache from all the walking and running and playing. She says, "What on earth is that?"

"It's an old cabin."

Clary rolls her eyes at him disgustedly, but he just grins again and elaborates, "It was the original house on the property when Father bought it—built by an old hermit years before. Father left it alone, and Luke helped me fix the leaky roof and Amatis gave me an old bed to put in it, and some nights, I sleep out there."

"All by yourself?" Clary asks, and then feels irritated by her girlishness. She shouldn't have acted so surprised and horrified by the idea of sleeping alone in the wilderness.

She figures Jace will jump on the opportunity to bring up her cowardice, but he doesn't. He merely nods his head rapidly, like a dog that can't stay still. "Yes. Come see it!" And then he shoots off, past the ranch house, and Clary rolls her eyes.

_Do all boys run everywhere?_ she wonders. _Or just Jace?_

* * *

**So please review! (: Let me know a favorite line if you have one! I don't think there are any good lines in this one, though. It's not my favorite chapter, more of a relationship building chapter. Next chapter, though, we get some plot development on the Valentine/barn front! (: YAY!**

**Also, I've started another story (I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME! I need to stop. Spreading myself thin.) It's Twilight fanfiction, so if you want to give it a shot, I'd be grateful! I know that isn't everyone's cup of tea, though, and that's okay, too!  
**

**AND ONE MORE THING! I'm going to write a lot more tonight and only write because I'm on a roll. I will, however, respond to all reviews and PM's tomorrow! Sorry I'm being so slack lately. I feel like I'm being horrible. Please forgive me!**

**Stay tuned for the next update! (:**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, y'all! This is the last chapter with Clary and Jace being 10 and 12! Next, we'll have them at 12 and 14! ...respectively!**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

The cabin is a tiny, one roomed place that's even more rustic than the main house. The wooden beams above head are dusty, and the ratty mattress in the rickety iron bed frame in the center of the room takes up most the space. There's only a little place left over for a bedside table and oil lamp.

But Clary decides she likes the cabin still. There's something suffocating homey about it.

"It's quite nice," she admits begrudgingly. Then, to make sure she isn't too nice, she runs a finger across the bedside table, swipes up a gray finger of dust, and says, distastefully, "But it wouldn't hurt to be cleaned."

"It doesn't need to be cleaned," Jace scoffs. "It's my cabin. And if it's too clean, it isn't at all manly."

"Who's a man?" Clary inquires, arching her brows as if genuinely surprised.

"I have my suspicions about you," he mutters. "The way you act sometimes."

Clary gasps in horror. "How dare you!"

And then, before Jace can reply, there's a loud creaking sound outside the cabin. Jace quickly flings a finger to his lips in motion to be quiet, and he crowds over by Clary, to peep out the window. She peeps with him, finds a large, broken down barn, sees Valentine slipping inside.

"Is that where he conducts his experiments?" Clary whispers, even though Valentine could never possibly hear her from this distance.

Jace's eyes flicker darkly over the barn. "Yes," he replies, his voice just as quiet and subdued.

A sudden curiosity surges over Clary, and she finds herself grabbing Jace's arm, pulling him towards the cabin door. "C'mon! Let's go see what he's doing!"

"W-what?" Jace splutters, getting choked on the word. He wrenches his arm free of her grasp, his eyebrows shooting up beneath the fringe of curls that fall into his eyes. "No! Do you've no idea what he would do to us, if he were to catch us?"

"Then we'll creep about," Clary replies, jumping on her toe, excitedly. She feels the hum of something on her skin, twisting her gut—the hum of secrecy and rule breaking and danger.

It excites her, makes her think of an adventure—the likes of which she reads about all the time in novels.

She would love to have her very own adventure, though, just for herself.

"He will beat us," Jace says stiffly, and Clary almost thinks she sees him rub his wrist, as if remembering an old wound.

She wonders how many times Jace has been hurt by their father—badly—and then she decides she doesn't rightly want to know.

"Come, Jace. Don't be a fraidy-cat."

"I am not," he huffs, his boyish pride stung.

"Then c'mon," she urges, excited anew. Her scalp prickles. "Let's just go take a quick peep! We'll creep around and he will never be any the wiser."

A shadow of debate and hesitation slides over Jace's pretty face. And then he scowls, cementing his features into something less vulnerable, and says, "Fine. But if we get caught, I'm blaming it all on you and running for my own life."

"Fair enough."

* * *

"Good, Lord," Jace huffs meekly below her. "You're atrociously heavy. Where on earth do you store all that weight?"

"Shush," Clary hisses, her eyes just barely clearing the top window of the barn. She balances shakily on Jace's thin shoulders.

"Can you see? Or are you just torturing me?" Jace groans, his hands grasping her feet tightly.

"I can see," Clary says. She squints her eyes into the carnivorous barn. Long tables run the hay-covered floor, stacked with strange, old books and glass beakers and odd-looking herbs. Clary sees something smoking gently in the corner. She tilts her head upwards, looks into what she can see of the barn's loft. But there's nothing interesting there, and she turns her attention back to the small section of Valentine she can see. "He's working over something," she reports.

"He's always doing that. This is foolish," comes Jace's slightly breathless reply from somewhere beneath Clary.

"Oh, be quiet," she instructs and grips the edge of the window tighter, just in case Jace's hold were to waver any more. She watches for a moment longer, sees Valentine lift a small vile into the air and shake it. Some kind of orange water fizzes within it, and he nods to himself before turning towards her. She ducks slightly, Jace's own nervousness catching on.

She thinks for a moment, perhaps, that Valentine's black eyes will snap up to the window knowingly and lock with hers. And she'll feel a cold spike of fear that runs down her spine, to the tips of her toes, making her tremble with dread.

But he does no such thing. His head only turns left, up towards the loft of the barn. He seems to frown at something.

And Clary frowns, too, because she sees a shadow moving now in the loft. A big shadow. A hulking shadow.

Her gasp is quiet, but somehow, Jace hears.

"What? What is it?"

"There's…" she begins, at a loss as her eyes grow wide, watching the shadow unfurl and seem to grow in its massive, unnaturally bent and hunched shape. It's so menacing, with the lumpy knots of flesh, to the wisps of what could be hair, to the broken-like bends to its limbs, and the twisted protuberances from its body.

Clary blinks once, twice, three times, but the shadow remains.

Her heart is pounding.

What monster could it be?

And then, like something that has slithered its way out of one of Clary's most horrifying nightmares, a low sound emanates from the barn—a subtle rumble, like that of far-off thunder, that eases into something bone-vibrating and blood-curdling.

Clary cries out, her sound of terror drowned by the moan of evil, and she falls backwards, off Jace's shoulders.

And then they are both running, tearing side-by-side across the ranch grounds, dashing all the way back to the main house in record speed.

They dash into the house, making a racket, but neither of them care. They gallop up the steps and somehow, wind up in the Clary's room, slamming the door behind them and then huddling in the corner, both of them panting desperately, their eyes matching disks of horror.

"What in God's name was that?" Clary rasps.

"I haven't a clue," Jace replies, drawing his knees up to his chest, licking his lips. His eyes dart to and from the door, as if at any moment he suspects the monster to come barreling in. He says, desperately, "Let's never speak of it again."

"But," Clary begins, shocked.

"No." Jace's eyes are on hers firmly, a steeling resolve already setting within the golden depths. "No, Clary. We aren't to speak of it again. I don't want to."

"Aren't you curious—"

"I'm not one _bit_ curious! Why would I be curious about something that sounded as if it could eat both of us? And if that was its stomach rattling, it certainly could hold us." Jace licks his lips again, his eyes flickering back to the door. "Perhaps we misheard. Perhaps it was something else. Father…he wouldn't have a monster. There's no such thing, anyway."

"How are you so certain?" Clary challenges.

"Monsters are just used to scare children into behaving," Jace returns hotly, glaring at her.

"What if our father created it?"

"Only God can create life. You know that."

"But—"

"Honestly, Clary! I don't see why you're so damn curious all the time," he hisses suddenly, standing up rather violently, a spastic jerk of his legs. He looks down at her, his face twisted in anger and fear and something else. Clary thinks it looks slightly like desperation. The desperation not to believe in something terrible.

"Don't mention it to be ever again," he warns. "And don't ever ask me to spy on our father again, either." And with that, he marches out of her room, leaving her to tremble and fear for the monster by herself, the rest of the night.

* * *

The next morning, the monster seems like a dream she made up.

And without Jace mentioning it or even acting slightly different from his normal, aggravating disposition, she thinks she must have dreamed it up, after all. She likes it better this way, even though she doesn't quite shake the nagging sense of wrongness within her.

But she doesn't mention it to Jace again.

She never does.

* * *

**Please review, as always! (: Favorite line, too, if there is one! I don't know why I like getting those so much, but I think it might be because it gives me a little more insight into the readers, to see what y'all like on a personal level! I hope everyone has a fabulous evening/morning/day! I will talk with y'all tomorrow!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, y'all! I'm sorry I disappeared! Had to do a few important things, but I'm back with two updates tonight. One more after this! (: I hope y'all enjoy!**

**And, oh, yeah! I changed my mind. Clary and Jace are going to be 13 and 15 in this chapter, so we jumped three years instead of two, like I'd originally planned! (:**

**Also. Trying to cut back on all the crap I make y'all read at the beginning of these chapters! (; How am I doing? **

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**_1915_**

**Three Years Later**

Clary watches from the front porch as the white flurries fall down, her robe tightened around her securely, to ward off the freezing cold.

Though she's seen snow before, in New York, it always seemed ordinary. It was a bit dingy and smoky colored, stained by all the pollution of the city. But here, on the ranch, it is pure, innocently white. It falls heavily and covers the ground already, making the air quiet and soft, like someone's held, quivering breath.

She inhales deeply, feeling the precious cold burn her throat, and her head rests against one of the wooden posts supporting the porch roof.

It's absolutely breathtaking, the epitome of peaceful.

Until a snowball smashes against Clary's cheek.

She takes in a shuddering, gasping breath, shaking at the cold and the anger that wells up inside her. She turns towards the breathless laughter. "Don't you believe you're a bit old to be doing these kinds of things?" she demands stiffly, wiping the dripping snow from her shoulder.

Jace staggers towards the porch, his hands shoved deeply in his woolen coat pockets. His golden curls are mussed, his cheeks rosy pink from the frigid air. He's still laughing, his honey eyes squinted and sparkling. "Nonsense. You're never too old for a snowball fight."

Clary simply rolls her eyes at him, and he jumps up onto the porch, refusing to use the steps, making the floorboards shudder when his weight hits. "You're going to break something doing that," she admonishes, still dusting the snow off of her before she catches her death a cold.

"Do you always have something to nag me about?" he inquires, walking over to her with a grin.

"Do you always have to be doing something worth nagging about?" she shoots back, arching a brow at him. She has to crane her head back to look at him now. Since he turned thirteen two years ago, he's shot up like a weed, towering over her and everyone else in the house—everyone but their Father who seems to tower over the world itself.

"I can't help it," he tells her and then reaches out to brush a piece of snow from her cheek.

She can't help but notice how warm and rough-feeling his fingers are against the softness of her skin. She can't help but notice many things lately—the way his hair falls into his eyes, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way he smells very good, like something spicy and warm, the way he has finally started growing into his gangly limbs and broad shoulders, the way his voice has stopped breaking and squeaking, as it did for a good year.

She had made fun of him relentlessly for his voice.

Now, she doesn't find very much funny about it at all.

Clary shifts back from him a bit, from his touch. She doesn't like how often he seems to find ways to touch her—to tuck her hair behind her ear or to touch her lower back when guiding her somewhere she already knows how to get to.

She sees a flash of something in his eyes as she pulls away, but it's quickly gone and he says, "Father is going to take us all into town tomorrow."

"Really?" Clary asks, her brows shooting up in surprise. A trip to town? The first in a year! Amatis had convinced their father last year, at Christmastime, that the children needed to see the decorations in the shops of the nearby town of Idris. Their father had begrudgingly agreed, but not since.

"Whatever is the occasion?" Clary inquires.

"He says he needs something that can't be delivered before the blizzard," Jace murmurs, glancing to the railing of the porch, where a thick coating of snow has gathered. He runs his gloved fingers over the white power slowly. "And Amatis and Luke say we need supplies if we're to last through the winter. There will be too much snow for any supplies to get to us."

"Hm," Clary hums, casting her eyes over the rapidly piling snow. The whole world is white and beautiful, shivering and silent. She can't imagine it being so deadly, but she knows it is. "Do you like the winter, Jace?"

"Not very much," he replies, shrugging. His eyes still watch as he dusts snow from the rail. "I like the summer better, when things are green and warm."

"The summer's nice," she concedes. Her own bare hands go to the snow-covered railing. "But I favor winter more." Clary sighs, watching her breath cloud out in front of her like glitter. "I'm not sure why. It just seems more…peaceful. Something."

"'Some say the world will end in fire/ Some say in ice/ From what I've tasted of desire/ I hold with those who favor fire./ But if it had to perish twice,/ I think I know enough of hate / To say that for destruction ice/ Is also great/ And would suffice_,_'" Jace quotes with a tiny smile as he draws patterns in the snow.

Clary smiles, too, her fingers curling around the cool ice on the railing. "And here I thought you never bothered with your required reading."

Jace glances over at her, a devilish look on his face. He's quite devilish lately, even more so than when he was very young. "O ye of little faith, my young sister."

Clary's eyes narrow slightly, but her smile remains, a tense curve of her lips. And, before he can see the own devil in her eyes, she reaches out, grabs the tops of his pants and undershorts, and yanks at them before dumping a handful of snow down his trousers.

Jace immediately pulls away with a yelp and string of ugly profanities Clary is unsure of where he learned. He winces and skitters back from her, thrusting his hand down the front of his pants immediately.

Clary laughs loudly enough to draw the attention of Luke, who walks up onto the porch with a baffled expression as he sees Jace digging about in the front of his trousers wildly.

"What on earth?" Luke asks mildly, his brows rising.

"Jace decided to start a fight he couldn't finish," Clary tells him, arching a brow over at Jace. His eyes meet hers long enough for her to see the fire within them, the dangerous kind of fire she sees just before he does something rash. She doesn't know why it makes her heart beat faster, so she looks back to Luke, to find the older man smiling as he removes his gloves.

"You should know better than to start a fight with a woman, Jace," Luke comments, walking towards the front door of the house. "They always win, son."

Jace has finally dug most of the snow out and shaken the rest down his pants legs. He removes his hand from his trousers and half glares, half grins at Clary as he answers Luke. "I'm not entirely sure our dear Clarissa is much of a woman at all. More of a devil."

"All women are," Luke says with a good-natured grin and ducks into the front door easily.

"Aren't you a bit too old to be doing this kind of thing?" Jace inquires mockingly, motioning down to his pants, which have darkened spots of wet all up and down them.

"I don't believe so," Clary says, pretending to debate on the matter seriously. "I've yet to even turn fourteen."

"You'll turn in three weeks," Jace reminds.

"Perhaps then I'll be too old for it," she decides, nodding. "But not until then."

"Oh, really?" Jace drawls, his voice dripping sarcasm as he takes one fluid, dangerous step closer to her, so close she steps back a bit, only to feel the railing of the porch pressing into the small of her back.

"Really," Clary murmurs boldly, arching her brows. She isn't sure how much she likes having to tilt her head back so far to look at him. She detests being less in any way when it comes to him—height being no different. Yet, there's something slightly appealing about it, too—some fleeting thing that she can't understand.

"You do realize I'll return the favor don't you?" he inquires, motioning to his blotted wet trousers.

"I believe we're even," Clary defends, trying to slow the jumpy beat of her heart.

"Oh, we're not," Jace scoffs, shaking his head. And then he leans in, very close, too close, and his breath is shockingly hot against her ear, but it must just be the cold of the air that makes it seem so dramatic. "Not yet."

He pulls back from her slightly, so their eyes can meet again, and his are like the summer sun, so relentless and scorching, and Clary doesn't like so much the way he's started looking at her—like this. Differently.

His gazes have always been too intense, bordering on too long to be appropriate, but now, it all feels shifted, not so innocent anymore.

But despite how prickly it makes Clary's skin feel, she gets trapped nonetheless, finds herself staring up at him rather helplessly, unable to look away. Looking away isn't even a thought.

Then, though, Amatis swings the front screen open and says, "Children! Dinner!"

But Jace keeps staring down at her until she grows uncomfortable. And he must see it because his lips pull up on one side, his eyes flashing like the devil's.

"Jace, move," Clary says, a bit sharper than she intends.

And his smile grows just infinitesimally. But he steps back and she quickly ducks away from him, into the house, and she wishes some days that they were children again.

* * *

**Okay, so a few things right quick! (:**

**1. I know Robert Frost's poem was published first in 1920 while this chapter is set in 1915. But that's the beauty of fiction! You can do those kinds of things! Not really, but I did just this once. I hate those kinds of mistakes in movies and so forth, but I just thought the poem worked SO WELL for that moment. I couldn't help myself. Please forgive me! **

**2. Someone mentioned in the reviews that Clary's "voice" seemed a bit mature for her age. I was glad that that was brought up because I was hoping someone would bring attention to that! The reason it's so is because this is Clary looking back, basically. Even though it's told in present tense, it's really Clary as a mature adult telling the story. I just personally like to write in present tense, and I couldn't really get into writing in past tense just to make it seem "right." I was glad someone noticed it, though. Because it's important to remember Clary is, actually, looking back into her past. It kind of comes into play later on in the story! (: So thanks for mentioning it! **

**3. Please review! (: Let me know if you have a favorite line or not. Also, on a bit of a side note, I realize this chapter was kind of...mushy, I guess. Or cliche, maybe. The whole snowball fight and her dropping the snow down his pants and all. But as a kid, everything is pretty cliche anyway. What kid hasn't had a snowball fight or, if they don't have snow, been tempted to drop some ice cubes down a guy's pants or down the back of a friend's shirt? (:**

**4. Oh, yeah! And next chapter, they'll be in town! (:**


	8. Chapter 8

**UGH! I'm sorry I never got this up! I fell asleep sitting in my chair! I'm so sorry! Anyway, I'll make it up to y'all today. I'm going to try to get Chapter 9 and 10 up today, as well! So please enjoy and please forgive me if you can! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

"I think that will do, don't you?" Amatis inquires.

Clary eyes herself in the mirror coolly, trying to decide. Since she began that absolutely dreadful monthly bleeding Amatis said was necessary for a woman, Clary's body had changed before her vary eyes. It seemed as if overnight she could no long fit herself into her old dresses. Her bust and hips would no longer allow it. She had turned from a straight stick into something wildly curvy and new within a few months.

And now, Amatis has had to climb up in the attic of the house and dig out an old dress from one of the trunks. She's hemmed it twice and done other alterations, trying to get the style as close to what's fashionable as possible, although Clary could care less. But, Amatis, said, Valentine did. He didn't want his children looking improper, especially his daughter.

Clary shifts and tugs at the green fabric. She's gotten away with wearing pants and shirts and baggy, slightly less constricting dresses for the past year. She hates she's been forced back into this kind monstrosity. She hates even more that they'll likely be buying her new dresses in town.

"I think the hemline is finally right," Amatis says, pursing her lips as she eyes it in the mirror. "They are creeping up lately, or so I've seen in the magazines. Next, we'll have women walking around showing their knees if this continues!"

Clary scoffs at the idea. It's been so long since she's seen her own knees she can hardly remember what they look like some days. "I think the dress is delightful, Amatis. Thank you."

Amatis gives a wry smile. "You're very welcome, dear. Although I do know how much you detest dresses."

Clary sighs. "I suppose it's all part of being a woman," she says, a bit distastefully.

Amatis laughs, drifting closer to Clary, pushing some of her loose red waves of hair over her shoulder gently. Clary likes these kinds of touches and hates them, at the same time. They remind her of her mother—her mother that is dead and gone, her mother that Clary sometimes has such a hard time remembering, envisioning.

What shade, exactly, were her eyes? Her hair? What did her laugh sound like?

"Being a woman is hardly so bad, Clary, dear," Amatis soothes.

"Isn't it? This monthly bleeding business seems absolutely torturous."

Amatis smiles again. "Yes, that is rather irritating and uncomfortable. But it means you can have children one day, can have a bunch of little babies."

"I don't want children," Clary dismisses, smoothing out her dress.

"Oh, Clary, don't you?" Amatis inquires, wistfully. Her smile has faded, along with the rest of her, and suddenly, Clary has the courage to ask the older woman a question she's long since been curious over.

"Do you not have any children of your own, Amatis?" she asks, very softly because Clary truly already knows of the answer.

Amatis' eyes grow distant and weary, her face drawing in on itself, the remaining shreds of color draining from her face. The woman blinks and says, through a gravely voice, "I wasn't able."

"Oh," Clary replies and doesn't know what else to say. For the millionth time, she wishes her mother were here. Her mother would know how to comfort Amatis much more than Clary ever could.

Amatis clears her throat then, suddenly, and throws a water smile back onto her face. "Come, Clary. I'm sure the men are waiting downstairs for us."

And Clary nods, allowing it all to drop, as they both exit her bedroom.

* * *

The men _are_ waiting, all of them on the porch.

Luke looks surprisingly dashing in slightly dated clothes instead of his usual work clothes: torn trousers and dirty, sweaty shirts. He's even swept his hair back.

Valentine looks immaculate as he stands at the porch railing, his black eyes roaming over all the white snow. His suit is slick and modern, his hair pushed back elegantly.

And Clary's eyes quickly find Jace next, where he leans lazily against the railing, peeling at apple with a knife Luke gave him for his thirteenth birthday. The long peels of green fall away as Clary admires him, admires his refusal to conform to societal norms and slick back his own hair. The golden curls spring freely, falling into his eyes, brushing the back collar of his own suit—the suit Valentine must have forced him into wearing.

He looks so very handsome, Clary thinks, before she can stop herself. But then she thinks there's nothing wrong with her thoughts. She thought Luke looked dashing, as well, and he was quite older than her—a grown man and hardly a romantic interest.

But, a small, nagging voice pipes up in the back of her mind, you don't feel Luke is the same kind of handsome as Jace. Although, whom ever could think such a thing?

Clary's increasingly argumentative and circular thoughts nearly drive her mad. They always revolve around Jace, around whether or not she's thought something slightly inappropriate.

She just tells herself it's because she doesn't know how to act around a boy her own age, nonetheless a brother. She's just unsure. That's all it is.

And then, as if sensing her stare, Jace's eyes raise from beneath his lashes to catch hers, just like fly paper, and she's stuck there, in his swirling honey-gold eyes. A slow smile curves his lips, making those eyes of his sparkle and dance.

"Oh, Clary," Luke announces. "You look lovely, honey. Amatis, you did a job and a half."

"Thank you," Amatis and Clary say at the same time and then share a smile.

"Luke, bring the carriage around," Valentine orders stiffly, checking his pocket watch. "We're already behind schedule. We must get back before nightfall, before the snow gets too thick."

Luke immediately drops away into Mr. Garroway, the servant that Clary has found Valentine can make anyone into. She feels sick as she watches Luke duck his head, say, "Yes, sir," and scurry away, bounding off the porch and out of view.

She glances back over at her father, as he just looks back down at his pocket watch. Then, his eyes flicker over the snow-covered landscape again, a strange light in them that makes Clary back away, towards Amatis. Away from him.

* * *

Idris is a small town with small shops and small roads and small people—or, at least, so Valentine said.

But Clary thinks it quite nice. It could be perhaps because it's been so very long since she was in a city, but she enjoys the warm atmosphere of the bustling people and smiling faces nonetheless.

"Clary?" Amatis inquires as she climbs out of the carriage, down into the street.

"Yes, ma'am?" Clary asks, ripping her eyes away from the candy stores and the book store long enough to divert her attention back to the older woman.

Amatis reaches out, hands Clary a few coins. "This is your allowance. Go buy yourself a treat."  
Clary smiles grandly. "Oh, thank you, Amatis!"

"Of course, dear." Amatis offers a smile, one that's tinged in sadness, as all her smiles are. Then her faded blue eyes flicker around and land on Jace. "Jonathan, walk your sister wherever she pleases to go. Here's your allowance, as well."

As she hands it to him, Clary scowls and says, "I hardly need a nursemaid."

"Don't you?" Jace inquires, not even bothering to look at her as he insults her.

Clary's cheeks turn hot with rising anger, her lips parting to plow into him, but Amatis quickly silences her. "Clary, we _are_ in public, dear. Remember, you two, you can't act as you do on the ranch here."

Jace pockets his money and grins slightly at Amatis. "But aren't we always angels, Amatis?"

"More like devils," Amatis says with a small half smile back. "Now, you two go along. Luke and I will be running errands, along with your father. Meet us back at the carriage when the sun goes down."

"Yes, ma'am," Jace and Clary chime, and then everyone is going off in their own directions, and Clary gets a little lost in all the people and the clothes and the _life_. It's almost disorienting, being around so many people again. Almost frightening.

Despite herself, Clary huddles closer to Jace as they drift down the street. And she feels his hand go to the small of her back, like it seems to do more and more lately, but she doesn't remove it.

She likes knowing he's there, right beside her, so she doesn't get lost entirely in the crowd.

* * *

**They will see some...interesting things in town. So stay tuned for Chapter 9 please! And review if you feel like it! (:**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey, y'all! Next chapter coming shortly! (: So please stay tuned! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

"Where'd you get that dress?" Jace inquires as he fiddles with some kind trinket—a little money that has cymbals, maybe a music box.

Clary is admiring a drawing book with thick, creamy paper—the kind of paper her mother used to draw on herself, create beautiful new worlds on. Clary wonders if she'd have her mother's talent with art, now that she's older. "Amatis," Clary murmurs distantly as she searches for the price.

"It's…it's nice."

Clary looks over at Jace sharply, shocked to hear that strange, quivering tone to his voice—a tone she rarely hears unless he's addressing their father. She notices he's found the ugly monkey music box very intriguing all of a sudden. "Thank you," she says, a bit stiffly.

Jace just shrugs and continues fooling about with the demonic looking monkey. He finally gets it to start clinking its cymbals together, and Clary rolls her eyes at the proud look on his face.

And then she notices something.

Three girls, perhaps Jace's age or older, are staring at him from across the tiny little trinket store. They all huddle together, giggling and pointing at him and whispering things with flushed cheeks.

Clary glances back over to Jace, but he hasn't noticed them yet. He's still too busy messing about with the monkey. But she wonders what he'll do when he does notice them.

A year ago, when they came to down, there was a similar situation. A girl decided to bat her lashes at him and smile at him and generally make Clary sickened. But Jace never even batted an eyelash at her. He had been much too busy at that time trying honking this silly bicycle horn directly in Clary's ear, until she'd been forced to hit him, which had only made him laugh more delightedly.

But then, Jace glances up at the girls. He glances and then glances back down to the monkey and then back up to them again, as if he's just realized what he saw.

And he _smiles_!

Clary scowls, watching him give them that little grin he gives her sometimes, and she feels annoyed and prickly by it for some reason, even though she always tells him to stop when he makes those type faces at her. They make her uncomfortable—that smile and that darkening in his eyes. But it doesn't seem to make the girls uncomfortable.

They just giggle harder and hide against each other.

"Come along, Jace," Clary says primly, sitting the sketchbook down even though she wants it very much. She would be forced closer to the girls, though, if she were to buy it.

"But we just got here," Jace protests, glancing down at her with his brows pulling together.

"I'm aware," she replies, narrowing her eyes. "But I want to see the candy shop now."

"Well, go, then. I'm not done looking," he says.

Clary's scowl deepens, cements into her face. _What aren't you done looking at exactly?_ she wants to ask but she realizes beforehand how jealous and petty this would sound. So she simply huffs and marches out of the store, leaving Jace to the giggly little girls.

* * *

Clary drifts from the candy store, her giant lollipop held dearly to her chest, inside her coat. The snow is coming down again, soft white flurries that rain down from the heavens like powdered sugar. But the snow is not as lovely here, in the city, where everything is loud and smoky.

Sighing, Clary pulls her coat tight around her ears and starts back for the carriage. It is almost sunset. She wonders briefly if Jace is still with those girls, and a flash of anger twists in her gut.

As she walks, she cranes her head around, trying to take it all in before they go back to the ranch and another year passes until she gets to see the outside world.

Clary's glances down an alleyway as she drifts through the snowy streets, and she almost passes it by. But she sees the familiar, looming figure of her father there, and she quickly turns around, peeps back into the narrow passage between the two stores, trying her best to stay out of sight.

Her father looks like a god among all the trash and filth of the alley. His face is disdainful as he talks to a man huddling on the stoop of one of the shops. The man is shaking his head, motioning around wildly, but Valentine continues to give him his blankest, coldest stare—the one Clary has been the receiver of many times.

She finds that the only time her father does look at her, he looks through her. She doesn't mind so much, though. She's seen what happens when he _sees_ you. Jace has had quite a few unexpected bruises popping up on his cheek or arm—bruises he has such pitiful explanations for that Clary just finally stopped asking.

Valentine suddenly grabs the front of the man's work apron. The man's face goes as white as the snow, and he shuts up immediately, his mouth pressing into a thin, bloodless line as Valentine's own lips move rapidly and fluidly, his snake eyes never wavering.

And then the man nods rapidly, disappears for a moment inside the store, and then returns, a small brown parcel under his arm. He hands it to Valentine, and Valentine simply nods before turning, walking back towards the mouth of the alley.

Frantically, Clary dashes into the closest store and hides by the window, ignoring the curious look of the shop owner. She watches as Valentine drifts by her, and for a moment, she fears he might find her watching. For some reason, she thinks this would be the worst thing that could possibly happen.

But he doesn't. He just keeps walking briskly down the street, and finally, when he's been out of sight for five minutes, Clary slips out of the store again, into the cold.

She glances over to the store Valentine was dealing in. The front of it announces it to be a simple bookstore. But Clary doesn't think it's very normal to haggle for a book in a darkened alleyway.

So, after only a few moments of debate, her curiosity gets the best of her and she walks inside the store. The bell above head chimes, and behind all the teetering stacks of dusty tomes comes a cheery, "Welcome!"

Clary weaves her way carefully around the leaning piles of books, making sure not to brush up against one for fear of bring the whole structure down. The dust of the store makes her nose itch as her eyes roam hungrily over the titles of the novels. Some are old books, written in languages Clary cannot read, and others are simple things, trivial things.

She frowns and makes her way to the counter, where the man that gave the package to her father sits, stamping books slowly.

"Good afternoon," the man says happily, no sign of the fear Clary saw only moment's ago in his pale, round moon face. "May I help you?"

Clary smiles as best she can, nervous despite herself. "I…I would like to find a book."

"Well, I do believe you came to the right place," the man chuckles, his face dimpled and doughy.

Clary nods her head and laughs politely. "Yes, I believe so. I'm…I'm actually looking for a book I don't see. A, um, Latin book." It's the only thing Clary can think of to say. She's groping blindly in the dark for any kind of clue, and the only thing she can remember is Jace once saying Valentine had lots of books in the barn—Latin books.

And the man's face turns even more pale, a ghostly, deathly pale. His smile fades and he quickly licks his lips. "Ah…well, I don't believe I have anything in Latin. I apologize for the convenience, young miss."

"Are you sure?" Clary asks, placing her hands on the counter, making her eyes go wide and helpless. "I'm in desperate need."

The man swallows nervously, glances about the empty shop, and then, torn, he leans in closer to Clary and whispers, "I'm sorry. Whatever it is you've gotten yourself into, I'm very sorry. But these kinds of books…they just make things worse—especially for those whom don't know how to use them. And even those who do…well, there are powers among us that are greater than any human being—one trained in the dark arts or not."

Clary's eyes go wide in honest now. Dark arts? That's what her father has been doing? What are these dark arts? Clary can only envision evil and séances and ugly monsters.

The book man pulls back sharply and closes his face off. "Now, run along, little one. It's getting late."

Clary sees she'll get nothing more from him. Or perhaps she's too dumbfounded to try, so slowly, she turns and exits the bookshop, in a daze of confusion and questions that spin around her head frantically.

She's late getting to the carriage. Valentine gives her a reprimanding look, and Amatis admonishes her.

Jace is there. But she doesn't look at him.

* * *

**The next chapter is kinda fun, y'all. It'll be posted within the hour, I believe! (: Favorite lines please on this one. Although there aren't any...so y'all don't have to actually do it for this one!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey, y'all! I hope everyone is having a good night/day! Here's the last update for the evening! I think we'll have one, maybe two more chapters of Jace and Clary as 13 and 15 year olds. But then we'll jump to 14 and 16! (: So enjoy! (:**

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

Clary is having a dream. A nightmare.

She's standing in the middle of the snowy field, the hem of her nightgown drenched, her body shivering and cold. The tears that run down her cheeks sting in the frigid air, and she stares at her father, watches as he stands with his back to her, his face towards the moon.

She calls out for him, but he doesn't turn. And there's a sense of growing wrongness within her. Her imagination runs wild. She just knows that if he turns, his face will be that of a monster's—grotesque and evil. And he does turn, but his face is own. Mostly.

His eyes, though. His eyes are all black, swallowed whole my darkness—not even the whites of his eyes spared. And he smiles at her scream, and his teeth are sharp needles, like a cat's—like a vampire's.

Clary screams louder and staggers back, but the snow becomes quick sand, and she can't get away. She's trapped, frozen helplessly as she watches her father's shoulders grow, tear at the seams of his suit and rip them open. He shifts, and his bones snap and pop and his height stretches until he blots out the moon, blots out everything around her, and his talon-like hands reach out for her, ready to—

"Clary!"

She screams again right before a warm hand slams down over her mouth. Panicked, she tries to bite.

"OW! Shit!"

Slowly, her fear-muddled brain recognized the voice and the profanity, but she's still struggling slightly, her heart pounding with liquid energy as she kicks and claws at the hands that hold her down to the mattress.

And suddenly, Jace is on top of her, his legs on either side of hers, his hands grabbing her wrists and pinning her arms over her head. He scowls down at her, and there's enough moonlight falling into her room for her to finally see his pretty golden features.

She sighs in utter relief, relaxing into her bed weakly, her body still jerking with terror.

"What's gotten into you?" Jace demands quietly. "You've bit me!"

Clary scowls right back at him, her relief quickly fading. "You deserved as much, creeping about in the dead of night and waking me so abruptly."  
"I just barely touched you!" Jace lets go of her wrists and sits back on his knees above her, inspecting his wounded hand. "I believe I'm going to require stitches."

"Don't be so dramatic," Clary hisses. "And get off me!"

Jace seems to notice his current position as suddenly as Clary, but he merely smirks down at her, the devil in his eyes. He leans forward, pinning her wrists once again above her head, and his face is close to hers. Too close to hers. Close enough that she can feel his warm breath feathering over her lips. He says, "Try to get me off yourself. I bet you can't."

Clary glares furiously, readies herself to give him the fight of her life, but something stops her. She realizes now is not the appropriate time to be wrestling about, in her bed, alone with him. She isn't comfortable with it all. The mere thought of her body, and her newfound curves, pressing into him as she tries to wriggle her away from beneath him, makes her blush scarlet and feel overheated.

Instead, she goes limp and looks up at him dully. "No."

Jace's disappointment is immediate and obvious. "You're terribly dull, Clary."

"And you're terribly bothersome. Why don't you go back to your own bed and go to sleep?" she asks.

"Because I have a present for you," he says slowly, teasingly. "But I don't think I'm very inclined to give it to you now, with you like acting such a brat."

"Well," Clary huffs. "I didn't want a present from you, anyway."

Jace shrugs. "Very well." He rolls off her gracefully, onto his feet. He picks something off the floor—a parcel. Her present! And he holds it to his chest. "Goodnight then."

Clary can't believe it's actually a real thing! A real thing he bought rather than that time a year ago when he said he had her a gift and made her close her eyes and hold her hands out and then, as she was getting terribly excited, she felt a fat, lumpy frog being dropped into her palms. She'd screamed and raged and held a grudge against him for days, until he no longer found it funny and actually apologized, just to win her conversation back.

But this is no frog, and Clary feels suddenly desperate. "No, wait!" she chimes.

Jace hovers at the door, turns back to her, arches a brow.

She wants to slap him. But she wants the present more so she says, sitting up in her bed, "I won't be a brat."

"You promise?"

"I promise," she sighs.

So he walks back over, hops onto the bed with her again, and hands over the package carefully.

She quickly takes it from him, ripping at the crinkly brown paper it was wrapped in, digging to get to her prize. And she gasps quietly when she realizes what it is.

At first, she doesn't believe. And then, she thinks he must have done something to it—perhaps drawn in all the pages before she could, just to torment her—but the thick, creamy pages are clean and beautifully, endlessly white.

"My sketchbook!" she cries, her eyes wide with wonder. "How did you know?" she demands, looking up at him, find him watching her intently, a strange look on his face.

"Well, I saw you looking at it. It was all you seemed worried over when we were in the shop," Jace explains. Then he shifts slightly on her bed. She notices he won't fully look at her. "I knew you wanted it."

"Did you really buy it for me? With your own money?" Clary asks breathlessly, flipping through all the clean, wonderful pages excitedly.

There's a small smile in Jace's voice. "Yes."

"Oh, it's so lovely!" Clary exclaims, beaming at him. "Thank you, Jace!" She leans in, throws her arms around him before she thinks it over.

She feels his body stiffen sharply, but she doesn't relent. She knows it's only because he never gets hugs from anyone that he's reacted this way, but Clary remembers hugs from her mother all the time—big, soft hugs that smelled of delicate flowers and powder.

But it feels differently with Jace, Clary realizes, as his own arms go hesitantly around her. He's much too hard everywhere, his chest and his back. His arms are too bulky, not the slim willowy limbs of her mother. And his smell is hardly delicate. It's spicy and strong, overwhelming, and delicious, somehow. Clary finds herself pressing her nose into his hair at the nape of his neck, where the scent is the strongest, the warmest. She wonders what he does to smell like this, what soap he uses. She thought they all used the same soap in the house—the homemade kind Amatis slaves over.

But Clary certainly doesn't smell this way.

Slowly, Jace's arms grow a bit tighter around her, pulling her even closer to him, almost into his lap. She's the one stiffening now, but she doesn't pull away. She decides she almost likes it, the way she can hardly breathe, the way his scent is all over her, all around her, his scent and his body heat. She can't remember the last time she was embraced, and it feels good, even if it is strange and different.

Jace's hand smoothes up her back, pushed against her spine gently, and her breasts are suddenly pressed into the hard planes of his chest, and his face is in her neck and she feels him release a quiet, shivering exhale that raises goose pimples along her skin.

And then he's turning his head, and she turns hers, too, until she finds his golden eyes, eyes like the sun when it winks at you between summer tree leaves. She feels her own breath grow out of pace, out of sync, and she gets herself lost in those slightly hooded eyes.

He leans forward. She doesn't realize what he's doing until he's done it.

Their lips touch. His mouth is warm and soft, and immediately, Clary gasps quietly, a full-bodied shiver climbing down her spine.

She jerks back from him, horrified at the sudden and intense, urgent, heat that's blossomed inside her. "Jace, no."

He pulls back, but only slightly, his brows pulling together, his eyes dilated and oh-so wild. "It's only a kiss, Clary," he says, his voice hoarse.

"I don't…I don't think brothers kiss their sisters like that," Clary whispers, reaching up despite herself, brushing her fingers along her lips, curious as to why they still tingle and remember the press of his mouth there, as if he never left.

"It's only a kiss," he repeats. "What's the difference between that and a hug?"

Clary doesn't know. She doesn't know anything. Her body is as wild as Jace's eyes, and she shakes her head frantically.

And all she can think to say is, "Don't do it again."

* * *

**Well, we sure know he's not going to listen to that.**

**Anyway, please review and leave a favorite line if you feel like it! Also, if you feel like it, check out my Twilight fanfic. I'm not trying to annoy the crap out of all of y'all, but it's a story that's important to me, and I know all y'all give me such wonderful input! I just want your opinion of it, because, out of all the stories I've done, that fanfic is the closest to my heart in a way, just because I have a family member who suffers from bi-polar. So it's a bit based on her life! Anyway, I hope everyone has a wonderful evening/day/night/morning! Until tomorrow!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey, y'all! Sorry I've been MIA! I had some family time this weekend, so I didn't get on my laptop. But anyway, I think I'll have Chapter 12 up tonight, as well. MAYBE. We'll have to see how much I get done.**

**Also, I don't mean to be confusing, but most of this chapter is going to be a flashback to when Clary and Jace were 10 and 12 RESPECTIVELY (!). I know that's weird to throw back to that time, but here's the honest truth: I forgot about this scene. I write some scenes out of order when they just hit me over the head, so I wrote this one and then forgot to put it in when I still had them at ages 10 and 12. But the scene is fairly important for character development, so there you go. Don't get too confused, though, because after the squirrel scene (you'll know what I mean when you read it), we're gonna be back in the right order. Chapter 12 is actually going to start in 1916, which means Jace is 16 and Clary is 14. Please let me know, though, if you need more clarification. I'm sorry to do this to y'all! It was completely my fault, but that's one of the pitfalls to updating as I write-lots of typos and parts that don't click. Please forgive me!**

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Clary tries to forget about the kiss. She really does. But, she'll catch herself brushing her fingers against her lips, remembering. She'll catch herself looking at Jace's lips when he reads, when they move silently, when his eyes are safety diverted to the words on the paper.

And she catches him, too. She catches him looking at her lips, but he doesn't even have the decency to do it when she isn't paying him any attention. She catches him often, and she'll glare at him, and he'll only smirk, which will only draw her attention back to his mouth and how good it felt against hers.

She gets flushed just thinking about it. She wishes it never happened because now, it's always in the back of her mind, when they are together. And he tries to do it again—a few times.

They'll be laying in the grass, watching the sunset streak the sky with fire, and he'll turn his head, brush his lips up against her cheek, begging her to turn her head, too, so their mouths touch. He'll lean in very fast sometimes, trying to catch her by surprise, but she's always ready for it because she's always thinking about it.

She wishes it never happened.

* * *

**1912 (FLASHBACK)**

Jace finds himself a little squirrel.

It's a baby that fell out of the nest and couldn't help itself, and he found it while exploring and saved it.

Clary watches him a bit jealously with that squirrel. He goes every morning and milks the cow and gives some to that baby squirrel. Clary wishes she had a pet, too, something she could devote her time to so lovingly as Jace does to the squirrel. It's such a cute little fuzzy thing, too, and he seems to derive so much joy from taking care of something so small. Clary thinks that must be satisfying: to know that you're helping a helpless creature.

"What are you doing to name him?" Clary asks one evening as they sit in the den. The oil lamps are low, flickering warmly as the flames roar in the fireplace.

Jace sits on the floor, cross-legged, his golden curls tumbling over his forehead, hiding his eyes as he bows his head to the little squirrel in his lap. "I don't know yet."

"How about Rupert?"

"What an awful name. It sounds like a mean old grandfather's name—you know, the kind that waves a walking stick around the air and threatens children that dare tread on his property."

"Alonzo?"

"Alonzo? What kind of a name is _that_?"

"I rather like it. I think it sounds dignified."

"It always makes me think of some snooty politician with a stick up his posterior."

"Honestly," Clary replies, pretending to be horrified as she looks back down to her book.

"What about…Randolph?"

"That's terrible," Clary dismisses as quickly as Jace dismissed her ideas.

"And Alonzo is a winner?"

"Well, I liked it."

"You're just jealous."

"Of what, pray tell?" Clary drawls, flipping a page in her book. She feels his eyes on her but refuses to look over. In the two months she's stayed here, she's found he hates her ignoring him the most. It's the only way to combat his arrogance.

"Of Alonzo, obviously."

"I thought you said Alonzo was a silly name."

"It _is_ a silly name."

"You're a _silly_ boy," Clary huffs.

"I see you've run out of things to say. Are all girls so dull?"

"Oh, shut up," Clary mutters, flipping another page a bit too angrily, tearing it some. She hopes Jace didn't notice the sound.

And then there is a loud bang as Valentine walks into the front hall. Clary has quickly realized that Valentine is mostly absent during the day. While Luke and a few other men work the land, while Hodge tutors, while Amatis cleans, Valentine disappears out into the old barn. Jace still won't tell her what Valentine does out there all day. Clary doesn't think Jace knows himself.

"Clary, hide Alonzo!" Jace rushes out in one, quiet breath. He's on his feet, running over to her. "Hide him under your skirts!"

"No!" she gasps, horrified. "I will not!"

"Please!"

"Whatever for?" she demands.

Jace's frantic eyes dance over to the doorway into the den. He swallows nervously as his golden gaze flickers back to Clary. He looks young, very young—younger than her. "Please hide him. Father doesn't like pets."

And something in the quiet way he says it has Clary reaching for Alonzo and tucking him under her little apron. The baby squirrel roots around a little, so Clary quickly sits her book behind him so that when Valentine enters, all he will see is the spine and cover of Clary's novel.

Jace looks relieved as he sinks into the spot beside Clary, grabbing his own book—the one he's supposed to be reading, too.

Valentine enters just as the both of them settle.

His eyes narrow at their close placement on the couch. Clary wants to roll her eyes at Jace's stupidity. Of course he shouldn't have sat beside her. He never sits beside her. Valentine will know something is amiss.

"Children," he says coolly, walking in the room and pulling off his gloves. "How are we today?"

"Well, Father," they both chime in unison.

"Both reading what Hodge asks?"

"Yes, sir."

Valentine's calculating eyes seem to tick like a clock. "Well. Good evening to both of you, then. I shall retire for the night."

"Good night, Father," they say.

And then he's gone, and Jace sags in relief.

"Here. Take him. He's trying to claw his way out," Clary mutters, pretending to be completely put out as she hands the fuzzy, soft baby squirrel back to Jace.

Jace, for once, has nothing sharp to say back. He merely strokes Alonzo's head a few times, quietly looking down at the baby as if he's afraid to disappear. And then, finally, when Clary has long since turned her attention back to her book, she hears Jace whisper, "Thank you."

"What is that?" Valentine almost screeches as Alonzo darts across the den floor.

* * *

Clary watches is horror as the scene unfolds. Two months of careful deception has led to this.

Jace, for once, is ungraceful as he falls to the floor in an attempt to catch the fleeing Alonzo.

But he misses and the dumb squirrel runs right into Valentine, whom promptly scoops the bundle of fur up in his large hands. Clary feels there is nothing as terrifying as that sight—Alonzo, huddled and shaking and tiny and weak in such big, rough-looking hands.

"What in God's name is this?" Valentine demands, his voice slow and careful.

Jace picks himself off the floorboards gingerly. He's wincing and staring down at the ground, his head bowed in that submissive way Clary has grown to hate seeing.

Amatis is watching from the corner and pipes up desperately, catching onto something Clary doesn't fully understand. "Oh, that's mine! Luke found him a few months back—the little thing had fallen out of its nest, and I endeavored to raise him myself."

Valentine is only staring at Jace. "Amatis, do not make the mistake in thinking that I am a fool. I know that this rodent is not yours."

Jace seems to shake. Clary wants to go over, to stand beside him, but she's frozen in horror, watching Valentine's hands slowly tighten over the struggling Alonzo.

"Mr. Morgenstern—" Amatis begins.

"Quiet," Valentine snaps at her, his composure cracking for just a brief moment.

Jace sniffs, a bit too loudly.

And Valentine's eyes narrow. "Are you going to cry, son?"

"No, sir," Jace says quickly. His head is still bowed, his eyes fastened on the floorboards.

"I will make you a deal," Valentine says quietly. He takes a heavy step forward. Alonzo is still frantically squirming in Valentine's ogre hands. "If you don't cry, I won't punish you for disobeying one of my rules. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've told you time and time again, Jonathan, that pets are not allowed in this house," Valentine says, and his voice rises at the end, his words chopping angrily, like the brutal slice of a knife cutting vegetables. Valentine visibly struggles to reign in his fury. "Running in the house is not allowed. Playing in the house is not allowed. Bothering the staff is not allowed. Bothering me when I am working is not allowed. And what's the final rule, Jonathan?"

Jace takes too long to respond. Clary winces, her own lips parting to form the words he needs to say aloud, to save him from receiving yet another black eye. And finally, he manages to croak out the words, and he does so without his voice breaking once. Clary is proud despite herself.

"No pets are allowed, sir."

"That's right. Your sister doesn't seem to have such trouble with these simple rules." It is the only compliment Valentine will ever pay Clary.

"Yes, sir," Jace whispers.

"But you, my son, are constantly _breaking the rules_. I do not understand why you are so incredibly stubborn, but you have forced my hand, I'm afraid. Jonathan, look up at me."

Carefully, Jace raises his head. The shiner on his left eye is just barely a whisper of bruise on his golden skin now, but he is so pale that it stands out more than usual.

Clary feels Amatis lean into her slightly, watching just as horrified as the younger girl, just as helpless, too.

Clary wishes desperately for her mother. Her mother would stop this. Her mother was strong and elegant and would have stopped this before it ever even progressed so far. Her mother would have stopped it without Valentine even knowing he'd been stopped.

Clary wishes she _were_ her mother, on these days.

"Look up," Valentine says and then nods. "Now, if you cry, I will be forced to take away all privileges from you for the next two months. Do you understand?"

Jace's bottom lip quivers, but he nods rather stoically. "Yes, sir."

"Good." And then, with his obsidian depths focused evilly and dully on Jace, with deceptive, hellish fire simmering underneath, he begins squeezing Alonzo.

Clary yelps, but Amatis quickly grabs her arm and digs her nails into her flesh, a silent reminder to be quiet and not incur more of Valentine's wrath.

So all there is to do is watch as Jace watches Valentine slowly pulverize the tiny, screaming, thrashing Alonzo.

Alonzo tries to bite and scratch his way out of Valentine's grip. The small squirrel fights and fights and fights, his little body wriggling wildly, his little cries cutting through the air. And then there's a crunch, a pop, and Alonzo goes limp in Valentine's palms.

Clary's eyes, though, are on Jace and Jace alone. He is standing there, his shoulders hunched as if against a strong wind, his jaw tight, flexing against the urge to cry. His eyes are watery, huge disks. He shivers, quakes, and his bottom lip jerks. But no tears fall over onto his cheeks.

Until Valentine flings the dead Alonzo to the ground. The tiny squirrel hits the floorboards with a horrific thump, a pile of fur and bones, and that's when two tears fall over, slowly winding down Jace's cheek.

And Valentine nods. "I'll be up to collect your things in the morning. You won't have the privilege of going outside or doing anything but schooling for the next two months." Valentine dusts his hands off and then strolls coolly towards the door. But pauses next to Jace and clasps his shoulder, not even looking at his sobbing son. "I hope you've learned your lesson, Jonathan. I'm going trying to make you into a man. Loving things gets you nothing in this life. Neither does crying." And then Valentine is gone.

* * *

She is lying in her bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the ghostly winter wind howl outside her windows. And then she hears a creak and footsteps, and she gets scared because her overactive imagination runs away from her and she knows it must be a monster coming to get her.

But it is merely Jace.

He touches her arm, and his whisper drifts to her in the pale moonlit darkness of the room. "Clary? Are you awake?"

"Yes," she says, sitting up a little. "Are you all right?"

Jace doesn't answer her. And she can't seem him very well but she could swear she does see tears on his cheeks.

"Can…May I…may I sit with you for a while?" Jace asks softly. "Just for a while. Until you fall asleep maybe?"

Clary doesn't know why she does it. But she tells him yes without hesitation. She lifts the covers and scoots over, knowing good and well that if Valentine were to catch them, he'd beat them both senseless.

Jace crawls into bed beside her, nestles down into the warm covers. The bed is big enough that they don't have to touch, and they both lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling and watching the strange patterns dance there from the tree leaves blowing in the wind outside the windows.

"He's not always so horrible," Jace tells her.

"I know," she replies, but she doesn't. She thinks Valentine is evil, that everything about him is evil. She doesn't understand why Jace still defends him. But she doesn't feel like arguing with him that particular night.

They fall asleep together innocently.

* * *

**NOW. Next chapter will be in 1916. No more flashbacks. At least, I don't think so.**

**So please review and give me a favorite line if there was one! Y'all are amazing! I hope everyone is doing well! (:**


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